Tales From The Network
by The Lord Lash
Summary: In the year 22XX, a mysterious, unregistered company called The Network is disrupting how packages get delivered. In highly-secure containers, unknown objects are shuffled across cities, destination unknown. Cast: Mac Raleigh
1. Mac: Episode 1 - Point A to Point B

**A Note From The Author:**

Tales From The Network is derived from four solo posts originally written for Star Force RP.

If you're looking for a fun time, check out Star Force RP. We're #1 on Google.

* * *

 _Moscow, Sharo_

Mac relaxed in the "shotgun seat", shoes on the front dash, seat in the reclining postion. Dressed in a common, dark-colored t-shirt and jogging pants, he was starting to look like a local.

His hair was long, flipped to one side, as if he were Aaron Bruno.

"I thought we were fighting against dealers."

The voice was James', but it was coming from Mac's mouth.

Mac yawned. "We are."

"So why are we running?"

"We're professionals." Mac said, staring into traffic. "We get packages from A-Z, without getting stopped, and without opening. We don't know who our clients are, and we don't care. Documents, letters, gifts - as long as my fee is paid, I don't care what's inside."

There was an audible ding as the vehicle came to a halt.

Mac climbed out and tapped on the car. It was a silver, 2168 model Huanda Darter - or seemed to be, at least. The type of import that was on the road twenty years ago, and still humming around in parts of the country.

He opened the backdoor. Mac pulled a black backpack from the rear seat. Backpack in one hand, he pulled a red Hunter-VG from a side pocket. He swiped through a series of screens. The car disappeared.

Mac checked a map on the Hunter, before slipping it back into the backpack pocket. Zwiiip.

"Right, off we go."

Mac started down a sidewalk. The young blades of grass were a rich green, a stark contrast to spring back home.

"Mac..."

"What?"

"... why are there runners? Shouldn't drones have replaced them?"

"Sharo banned drones from flight. Banned the sale and manufacture. They went quite privacy concious after the Poutine Affair."

"... oh."

The streets of downtown Sharo were an interesting affair. Old factories mingled with victorian-age housing, and modern skyscrapers. The planning was, decidedly, laisezz-faire. Classic communist design.

Down the street, there seemed to be a commotion.

Mac ducked into the alley.

* * *

"Up we go."

Mac eyed the fire escape of the apartment complex. If he wheeled a bin underneath, it would be a matter of jumping - and luck. The fire escape looked like it had last been touched 200 years ago.

The brakes on the large green bins were surprisingly easy to dis-engage. A push, and it was in place. Mac clambered atop it, and leapt for the ladder.

He caught on, with one hand. The bin slowly picked up speed, rolling out from beneath him. He gripped with a second hand, pulling himself up a rung. Grabbing the sides of the ladder, he "walked" up with his feet.

First platform, second story. Two more to go. A little wobbly, but the platform seemed to be holding. Mac started on the second ladder.

By the time he was on the second platform, the dumpster bin had made it into the street.

The third platform ended, it's top rail just four feet shy of the roof. Mac bit his lip, balancing delicately. He jumped, caught the inner lip, pulled himself up, scraping his arm in the process.

The gray gravel of the roof nearly matched the blue-gray of the sky above. Rain was coming, Mac knew. Despite the clouds, it was a nice 18 degrees celcius.

Mac sprinted, spotting a path from one roof to the other street.

Dak-dak-dak went his feet.

There was an almighty "BANG" as something smacked into the dumpster bin. What had started as a simple commotion would soon spread, possibly turning into a full-on panic.

The metro was on the other street, and that's where he was headed.

A side-street seperated the building he was on from the one he needed to go to. Eight feet across, clearly designed for a one-way.

Mac was going full-sprint when he reached the edge of his roof. He leapt, clearing the street. Wait, no, he crashed into the wall, luckily catching hold.

"Thank god for kneepads."

Again, Mac pulled himself up. The side-street seemed to be barricaded. Hopefully the metro was still open.

The front, public face of the building had a sloping roof over a veranda. It was an eighteen foot drop to that roof, but if he lowered himself from a window ledge-

Ten feet. Mac hit it with a roll, nearly slipping off entirely. The impact hurt, especially since it was sloped.

Mac crawled to the edge of the veranda roof, and dropped.

The street was deserted. The metro entrance loomed across the street, stairs headed underground. What else could he do? He crossed the street, and headed to the ticket-dispenser.

Coins. He luckily had enough, and the ticket printed almost instantly. Down another set of stairs (and through a pass-checker), the station platform.

The lighting was flickery, the concrete covered in graffiti. The station had been built 150 years ago - and it showed.

* * *

An hour later, the doors opened, Mac spilling out into Slavyansky Bulvar Station.

The station was crowded, people moving in and out, a constant stream in all directions. It was always this way, had been since it was renovated just twelve years.

Mac went with the flow, up a set of escalators, and onto the street. A shopping district - a mall dead ahead, and a parkade behind the subway entrance.

Mac headed for the parkade, jogging along the broad sidewalk. The sidewalk continued past the toll-booth, and into the parkade proper. A handful of people were meandering down.

Into the parkade, and toward the elevator.

Mac tapped the button. The doors slid opoen. He stepped in, and hit (6). The doors closed, and it started up.

When the doors opened, Mac strode out. There was another level to this yet, but he wasn't headed for it. No, he was headed toward the far corner of the F-section.

A figure on a black moped waved.

Mac took off the backpack, and pulled out the black lunch box.

"Take it from here."

Mac pulled out the red Hunter-VG, and tapped a series of buttons.

It was time to head back to the hostel.


	2. Mac: Episode 2 - Water Into Wine

"The end is coming."

Mac spoke matter-of-factly, coolly perched on a rock above the waterfall. Or surrounded by the waterfall. Fifty feet below, the water was churning, spraying white foam in all directions. Behind him, the water continued rushing.

"Death. It's funny. Here I am, a dead man already. Surrounded by the dead, struggling with the dead."

"Quit talking like that, Mac."

Even thousands of miles away, sealed in a data card, James was still a pain. At this point, Mac wasn't sure if it was in his head, or if James really was talking with him. He no longer cared.

"Look. Blue Rose is after us, and I can't stay underground for long. There's only one way out. We're going ghost."

"Mac..."

"I know. We'll pay a visit to the saint. It's the least we can do."

"... I don't think we're on the same page here." James sounded worried, cautious. Warning.

"I don't think we're on the same continent."

"... Mac. Listen."

Mac stood up, reaching into a pocket. "Oh, look, a new message. Let's see what it is, shall we?"

Mac fiddled with the old transer, typing into the on-screen keyboard.

"You're not weak. Neither is Juan. You've left him in a bad spot - you dropped the stuff and ran. Who do you think Blue Rose will target? You have to stick together..."

"Bullhockey. It's impossible to be everywhere at the same time."

"... Mac."

"Yeah, I know. We're going back. We have unfinished business... Oh, and another run to make."

* * *

Pickup.

"A dozen black tulips, a dozen white tulips." Mac mumbled, staring at the entrance to the floral shop. Snowflakes danced around him, a reminder of nature's fickleness. A well-beaten, almost ancient Lada interrupted his vision.

"... whatever."

Mac crossed the street. Why was he running errands? He was a courier, not a shopping assistant. He didn't care for the answer now. Answers wouldn't pay the bills.

Besides, The Enterprise didn't like questions.

Mac opened the door, stepping inside.

The floral shop was quite bare. There were no flowers, no floral arrangements. Just a desk, and a bell. The clock on the wall had dust on it. The desk's counter looked like something from the 80s - the 1980s.

Apart from that, the place seemed well kept.

Mac rang the bell.

A door opened, and a white-haired man stepped into the room. Mac noted the black turtleneck sweater and a yellow scarf.

"Доброе утро" the man said.

Mac returned the greeting.

"I need a specific arrangement - a dozen black tulips, and a dozen white."

The man raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Simply retreated into the back room.

"... creepy." Mac muttered.

The man returned with a black briefcase, locked. Mac looked at it for a moment - and then shrugged.

"Ah, ah." said the man, producing a pair of handcuffs. "Don't lose it."

Mac eyed the man, and then extended a wrist. Clack. Clack. Whether this security theatre was truly warranted, Mac didn't know. With the briefcase chained to and occupying his right hand, his mobility was now rather limited.

"Time is of the essence." the man said, pointing to the door

* * *

"Mac..."

"Yeah, I know. This is insane."

"No. Company."

Mac glanced at the side mirror of the bike. Indeed, he had company. With one hand tied to the steering, his quick-ditch options were limited. He'd have to win this by sheer skill alone.

Four bikes, eight riders. Somebody'd sent in the cavalry.

Just what was so valuable about this?

Mac should have guessed when he accepted the assignment. Nobody offers high pay for a simple delivery. But he really needed that money...

... it could pay for a flight both ways, and still cover some bills.

Evidently they needed that briefcase, because they were driving like bats out of hell.

Up ahead, traffic was getting tighter.

The speedometer read 110km/hr, and was rapidly increasing.

Mac threaded around a slow car, and looked for his options ahead.

There was a semi hauling portable toilets, heading the opposite direction.

"... Mac..."

"Yeah, don't damage the bike. I know."

Mac started veering to the left, getting as close to the Semi's lane as possible. He reached his left hand out, extending it. "James, now."

His sword appeared in his hand.

The whole line of portable toilets fell behind him as he passed, wreaking havoc on traffic. With luck, he'd have bought a few seconds - maybe even ten.

The sword disappeared as he looked in the rear view. Yup, it was going to be a good old disgusting mess alright.

Mac took a turn to the left.

There was a city bus ahead he could use as cover if he could get in front of it. By now, his speedometer was reading 160(km), and the wind was freezing his exposed neck. The helmet at least, was shielding him from the worst of things.

The parking lot of the library was empty.

Mac cut across, turning right.

Dead end; the road stopped, leading into a steep hill. There was a river ahead.

Mac kept going.

Brush up ahead. A walking path skirted the river's edge. Mac turned hard, right, onto the path.

A bridge loomed ahead, above the path.

"Thirty minutes." James said.

* * *

"Made it."

Mac started unwrapping his arm from the handlebar, eyes on the open-doored church ahead. Petals littered the stairs, covering the red carpet with white. He finally pulled himself free, leaping off the bike - he hoped the lawn would be okay - and into the church.

A man in a black robe pulled him aside into the coatroom.

"Get it off."

The man produced two keys, removing the handcuffs from the briefcase, and unlocking the briefcase itself.

"This off." Mac said, tapping his wrist.

The man shrugged, and removed the handcuff. "Go now, for you are not wanted here."

Mac shrugged, and produced the red Hunter from his other pocket. "Sign."

The man scribbled. Mac took back the Hunter, and nodded.

He was out of here.

"... so. Confirmed?"

"Yes." Mac replied, lifting the motorbike into a standing position. "Cana assignment complete."


	3. Mac: Episode 3 - The Fold

"The name's Bond... James Bond."

Mac examined the newcomer. The newcomer was dressed in a midnight blue dinner jacket, matching pants, white shirt, and an askew bowtie. The newcomer had ginger hair, and a spanish accent.

"Ezio Auditore, at your service." Mac bowed with a flourish.

"Cards?"

Mac shrugged and followed the newcomer to an empty table. A stack of cards sat in the middle of the green felt-topped table. The chairs were, luckily, leather office chairs, obviously out of place, but oh-so-welcome.

A third joined them, a tall figure figure with a basket, white shirt, blue-polka dotted dress, and blond pigtails. "Who deals?"

Mac shrugged again.

Bond slapped a coin on the table. "Call, Dorothy."

"Heads."

Bond flicked the coin in the the air. It twirled and turned, landing with a muffled thunk. "Deck's yours." conceded Bond.

"So..."

"James..."

"Yes?" Bond prompted, raising an eyebrow.

The sound of cards expertly shuffled was unmistakable.

"... what do you do?"

"Mutual fund management. Why do you ask?"

Mac shrugged again.

"Are we playing poker or twenty questions?" Dorothy cut in.

Mac waved his hand toward the deck. Bond nodded, producing a small case full of tokens. Mac matched, sorting out his own stack of chips. 

* * *

"Raise."

Mac narrowed his eyes. Four cards already on the table. The pot seemed to dwarf the player piles.

"Four hundred."

Mac bit his lip.

"Call."

Dorothy finished the betting round. The fifth card - the river - was flopped. A 10 of hearts.

Mac swallowed. "Raise, five hundred."

Bond smirked. "Raise, six hundred."

Both eyed Dorothy, who seemed to be physically weighing her cards. "Fold."

Now Dorothy and Bond were eyeing Mac.

Mac flipped a card over. Jack, clubs. He flipped the second over. Queen - hearts.

Bond flipped both, simultaneously. Queen, spades. Jack, diamonds.

Mac let out a sigh of relief. "That was close... a little too close for comfort."

Bond assented.

Dorothy gathered her remaining chips, a spent look on her face. "I'm out - see you around."

Bond turned to Mac.

"I think a break would be good. I'll walk, too."

Then, there was Mac, alone, surrounded by a his chips. He counted the chips silently, his case getting more and more full. "Hmm, not a bad profit." Mac noted, standing up from the table.

There were two other tables in the room, and they looked full.

A bald-headed man in a suit caught Mac's eye. Red tie, black gloves... like an Agent. When the man looked up, Mac started to walk out of the room. A man in black sunglasses and a trenchcoat passed him.

"James, what."

"Is this how you pass your time? Going around in a costume, playing childish games, leaving your friends to hang?"

"How do you think we're going to get back? Tickets don't pay for themselves."

"This is hardly earning money."

"You're right. That's why we have a job tonight."

Mac turned the hallway. The red carpet, white walls, all seemed too clinical, bare of life. An elevator loomed at the end of the hall, past a dozen hotel room doors. The doors opened as Mac approached it.

"What kind of job?"

"We'll find out."

The doors closed. Mac pushed a button. The elevator started to descend.

"Mac?"

"Yeah."

"I'm worried. You don't seem to be yourself."

Mac shook his head slowly.

* * *

"High five!"

Mac raised a hand towards a figure in blue power armor. The figure's face was hidden behind a yellow visor, masking expression. The figure slowly raised a hand-

\- and Mac struck, landing a palm above the figure's heart.

"Point."

Mac ducked into the milling crowd, weaving through the lobby. Even though the lobby was huge, it was packed. People in costume filled the place, making it look like a popular online crossover server.

It was loud, too. Gloriously loud.

Mac made his way to the main doors.

More people were coming. Some were leaving, like him. Mac continued to the street. More people were walking around - as far as eye could see. It stretched blocks.

In his Assassin outfit, he was right at home.

Teletubbies and care bears swirled past as he made his way down the street. He was a man on a mission - get in, get out, go somewhere else, wait. The get in part was simple, in theory.

Mac walked into the lobby of another hotel.

The get out part, that would be tricky.

But first - the package.

A bulky man in green blocked his way as he went in. Mac scanned for an opening - there was none. He'd have to go- straight through. He gritted his teeth, ducked. Started forward. The man turned. Mac was pinned, in a way. Trapped between here and there.

Mac lifted his shoulder into the man's groin. Instant reaction.

And like that, he was off, and into the crowd.

Destination? The roof. Waypoint? The "Glass Tube" elevator.

The elevator was coming down, and it looked packed. Like a can of sardines, but all individually dressed before getting crammed in.

By the time he'd made it there, the elevator had already started upwards. Two options now, wait, or head for the hallways.

He opted to stay on the move.

The hallways had black carpeting and tangerine walls. Mac counted eight hallways going from the lobby - two in each direction. Traffic thinned out at the edges, allowing him to slip into a hallway in relative peace.

"So, up we go."

Mac raced toward the end of the hallway, making for the elevator like a bat out of hell.

"403... 403..."

* * *

Room 403.

Somebody had set up a full billiards table in there. The only other furniture were two barstools, weathered and beaten. What happened to the beds, the chairs? Nobody seemed to know, or care.

A figure in a black robe waved.

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted." Mac said.  
The figure replied. "Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent."  
"Hide in plain sight."  
"Never compromise The Brotherhood."

The figure extended a hand, a key inside. "Locker 21, exercise room C."

Mac took the key.

* * *

"Lightning god, huh?"

Mac sat at the poker table, chips mounting in a pile. Across him, a figure in a gray, curved jumpsuit - with shoulder-length white hair - and beside him, a man in tattered remains of a white suit.

"And you're..." Mac asked the dirty-looking man.

"Trinity."

"Trinity?"

"Uh huh. Right hand of the devil."

Dorothy took a seat at the table, filling it out to four.

"You know the rules. Hold'em, No Limits." white-hair said. "We'll let Trinity deal."

Trinity took his time shufffling. It started innocently. He cut the decks in half, folded them into each other, but it went from there. Then he started tossing the deck, slinky-style, between his hands. He swirled them across the table like dominos. He cleaned them up, split the decks, folded them in again.

Trinity dealt the cards, a bored expression on his face.

Mac checked his cards. 7 of spades, Queen of hearts. Not bad.

But not all that great. Mac called, place a chip worth 10. Raiden folded. Dorothy raised - 20. Trinity called.

The flop came.

7 hearts. 7 diamond. Queen spades.

Mac called, nudging forward another two chips. Dorothy called. Trinity raised - to forty.

Turn time. King of diamonds.

Mac called. Dorothy called. Trinity called.

River.

Five of clubs.

Mac raised - three hundred. Dorothy folded. Trinity called.

Mac flipped his cards.

Trinity slowly turned his over. 10 hearts, King spades.

Mac collected the pot.

Trinity shrugged, with a careless grin on his face.

Trinity gathered the cards, shuffled, and handed the deck to Mac.

Mac dealt the cards, checking his last. Queen spade, Jack diamond.

Raiden raised to fifty. Dorothy called. Trinity called. Mac called.

The flop came. Queen hearts, 3 spades, Jack clubs.

Raiden raised again - to eighty. Dorothy folded. Trinity called. Mac called.

The turn. Jack, hearts.

Mac slowly stared at each and every player. Trinity. Raiden. Trinity. Dorothy. Raiden. Somebody here would win - the question is, would it be the raiser or the silent?

Raiden raised to one hundred. Trinity called. Mac called.

The river. King, spades.

Raiden raised to one fifty. Trinity folded. Mac called.

Raiden flipped his cards. Ace heart, Jack spade.

Mac flipped his. Queen spade, Jack heart. A full house, Jacks full of Queens.

Mac raked in the pot, and then stood up.

Napoleon crossed the room. Mac narrowed his eyes. Was this his assassin, or was this the package recipient?

"Ave caeser. Te mortuni salutant."  
"This is sparta" countered Mac  
"From a single zero, two."

Mac conceded the package, and extended a hand. Napoleon took it.

"To future affairs." Napoleon said, releasing.


	4. Mac: Episode 4 - The End

Mac.

He seemed like a normal lad. A good lad, even. Good-hearted, certainly. Well-intentioned. But deep inside, he knew the ugly truth: he was a criminal, and part of an international conspiracy.

Or had been, anyway.

Certainly had gotten involved in terror. Hundreds of thousands, even millions of dollars in damage were due to him. At least he couldn't count any deaths - though he felt he'd killed somebody, somewhere. He just couldn't put a finger on it. That was the danger with the criminal life - it became just like breathing, just another routine bodily function. Just, normal.

Lawyers do the unethical, find ways to make the mostly-illegal legal. Assassins do the illegal. Mac?

Mac was doing what had to be done.

Survival was key here. No room for moral-highhorses, no time for fancy philosophizing, no allowance for relativistic debates. When it comes to life itself, a person will do anything - anything at all.

Which is why Mac was part of The Network. He wasn't even sure the legality of it. Running an unlicensed courier service was probably banned. Running one that blindly ran packages was certainly unethical - Schrodinger's principle was no protection against aiding and abetting hard criminals. That it was ran on underground servers, unadvertised to the world was a big red flag.

That isn't to say it was unpolished or inefficient. No, it was as polished as any commercial product. Far more efficient than the postbox - or government-sanctioned shippers. Faster, by far. It was slick, really.

All you had to do was open the app, and hit "On".

From there, the server would scan the online runners. It would keep track of packages. It would find the fastest handoff points. It would automatically route packages to the fastest, freshest runners. It was brilliant, really. Little tracking stickers inside the packaging's shell would keep track of the location, and keep track of who touched it. All this info would be relayed to the server, managed in real-time.

It was a thing of wonder.

And so far, it was running only in one city. Moscow.

Each runner would get a payment. The good runners - the A-rank - would get longer routes, better pay. The best - the S-rank - could run routes solo.

The server didn't immediately rank one. It provisionally placed one in A-rank, threw S-rank missions, and if the runner was decent, kept them there. The failures were moved to the bottom ranks.

There was no leaderboard, no central place. Only a star-rating in the corner of the screen. Mac looked at it. Five stars - he was still in the good books.

There was time for one last mission. One last fling. One last run. One last ride.

He hoped it would be a good one.

* * *

Eco-Terrorists Busted!  
International police efforts have nailed the notorious eco-terrorist group, Gaia Defence Force. Co-ordinated forces of Netopia, Electopia, and Interpol simulatenously raided homes and shelters of the most wanted early this morning, GSP spokesman J-Dog Arnold says.

They have the footage to prove it.

"The six-year string of high-profile crimes has ended." Arnold told reporters. "The wheels of justice may turn slowly, but the arm of the law has finally caught them."

Gaia Defence Force had recently claimed credit for the killing of cruise king Larry Lawrence, and the recent bombing of the Antartic Hotel.

Court appearances are scheduled for next week.

* * *

Mac's transer beeped. Showtime, baby!

The pickup-zone was three blocks away. Even in this rain, it wouldn't be a long run. No obstacles, no traffic. The app screen indicated that this would be a "medium" - twenty minutes' worth of running. There was no "handoff" icon - it was the final leg.

Mac ran.

The cold shower wrapped itself around him, isolating him from the outside world. It came down constantly, loudly, masking his footfalls. He could make out lights, though the outside world was blurry.

He passed newstores, cafes, specialty stores. Law firms, banks, offices. Repair shops, import stores, high-end clothing stores. Electronics stores, post offices, pharmacies.

It was all one long blur.

The handoff went slick, as smooth as the rain. A runner in yellow handed the package as they passed. Mac swung the straps onto his back, and checked the app.

The dropoff point was 4km away. Maps indicated it was a construction site - some sort of tower.

Mac sighed and steadied himself for the run.

* * *

18 minutes later, Mac was cursing.

No frickin' way. He could see a white sheet waving from the 40th - no, 42nd floor. Was he really going to have to go up that? Oh, hell no.

No delivery, no pay...

... and either way, his rank was going to take a dive. He sighed as he snuck up a stairwell, making his way into the building.

It was going to be a long run.

Random materials covered the floor - steel, tools, wood, drywall, insulation. Plastic and metal pipes sat in the center of the floor. Mac wasn't interested in that - or the elevator shaft - he turned his eyes to the main stairwell.

He pushed the metal door open, and started jogging up the stairs.

Fourth floor. Fifth floor. Eigth floor.

His lungs were burning, and he wasn't even at the finish yet. His legs felt like lead. Why had he taken this? What was the point?

Eleventh. Twelfth.

He didn't know.

Sixteen. Twenty.

What time was it?

Twenty one. Twenty two.

Nigh on 4AM, as far as Mac remembered.

Twenty five. Twenty eight.

Somebody had scrawled a smiley on the wall. Mac gritted his teeth. His body was screaming for a rest, but he wasn't letting it.

Thirty. Thirty one...

... he was starting to slow. His legs were in full revolt now, his sides aching. He slammed into the concrete wall, chest heaving. There were still eleven sets to run, and this was getting tiring. How much time had passed? Thirty minutes? Forty? Mac had lost track.

He pulled himself up, steadying himself on the metal rail.

"Come on... You can... do this." he huffed.

And slowly, he started back up again.

* * *

GDF brought down from inside: report

A report released by top analysts stated that notorious eco-terrorist group Gaia Defence Force had been brought down by a turncoat. The report concluded with a statement indicating that a CSIS agent may have been involved.

* * *

Mac pushed the door open.

Music blared from a stereo in the middle of the room. Two men in overalls assembled a wallframe, one laying out boards, the other nailing.

Mac set the package down, and extended his transer.

"Sign for the package, mister..."

The nailer looked up. "Wot's that?"

"Sign for the package."

"Oh. Okay..."

Mac read the sloppy scribble as he tucked his transer away. "Thank you, mister Heisenberg..."

Mac turned and headed back for the stairs.

* * *

His transer buzzed again mid-way down the tower.

The PUZ was nearby, and there was even a handoff icon. Perfect. Might as well, since he was already here... His five stars had shrank to but three, and Mac read "Easy" on the difficulty screen. Payout would suck, but at least it would get his rank points up.

Mac thought back to outside. The pickup zone - that would be across the street. As he pounded down the stairs, he felt exhilarated, less winded. Adrenaline kicking in?

Twenty. Seventeen. Twelve.

Mac's rainjacket came unzipped, flapping behind him like a cape.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

This was more like it. This is what he'd signed up for. Action! Challenge! A workout!

The pay...

Well.

Six. Five. Four.

The time for the handoff was fast approaching, and Mac was rushing.

Three. Two. Out the side.

The timer continued to run down.

Mac jumped, dashing across the road. A black car narrowly missed him, ripping down the road at a rapid clip. The antenna caught his raincoat. It ripped it, pulling it off.

He caught sight of a brown-coated, fedora-wearing figure. He hurried.

The figure shoved the package into Mac's hands.

* * *

GDF top killer still loose  
Police are still searching for GDF's top-ranked thug, codenamed "Black Scorpion". Authorities describe "Black Scorpion" as a caucasian female, between 19 and 27 years old, approximately 5"4, red hair, and gray eyes. Police suspect "Black Scorpion" may be hiding in a small town in Electopia.

* * *

The hand-off was six blocks away.

A horde of people spilled out of a nearby theatre, stumbling, shambling, spreading like a human stain.

The rain was still coming down, and Mac was starting to shiver. As he put the straps on, he wondered aloud. "What am I doing here?"

He would get no answer, save for the rain... and the crowd.

The crowd spilled across the street, traffic be damned. Young people, old people. T-shirt people, fur coat people. The crowd was the most damn inclusive bunch Mac had ever seen- and it was coming straight at him.

What could Mac do? Stay and wait? Or backtrack and run like hell? The package wouldn't deliver itself, that's for sure.

He ran.

The crowd expanded behind him, slowly fracturing, but mostly just staying put like a human roadblock.

The blobiness seemed familiar. And terrifying.

He ran like a demon, taking a corner at the interesection, speeding down across. A block wouldn't be enough distance - two would barely cut it. He skipped the first turn, took the second.

A bus passed him.

Mac kept pounding forward, the water spilling off his hair. His shirt was thoroughly soaked. The rain was slowing a bit, but was still swarming the ol' earth.

Mac passed Ye Olde English Pub, dodging an old coot who was muttering something about staples and mice.

He kept going. This would only take five minutes, he swore.

He was right.

When he handed it off, he smiled.

And then started to walk across the road.

He didn't see the car coming.

* * *

"Black Scorpion" turncoat: report  
A leaked memo indicated that police already have GDF killer Black Scorpion in custody - and that Black Scorpion is acting as a witness. Police declined to comment, replying with a note that they are not allowed to comment on the veracity of rumors.


End file.
